I've been wanting to do a one-shot revolving around Charlie for a while, and this was the eventual result. The New Moon film presented to me Charlie's pain at having to watch Bella go through what she went through in striking clarity. This shot just aims to express Charlie's possible feelings, which he find uncomfortable outwardly expressing.
Disclaimer: I do not own a thing, sadly.
Friday evening drew in hastily to encapsulate the small town of Forks. The sky, an almost permanent grey, was streaked with ominous black stretches away to the east, while blazingly in the west, an august orange sun descended below the shrouding tips of the peninsular; painting the sky a breathtaking hue.
It was as if two omnipotent forces rushed to meet each other, always stalking from behind; engaged in combat for prevalence in the sky. A canvas of uncertainty, illustrated by an artists hand.
Charlie with a distant countenance that feigned interest, sat rigidly watching the game. Marinars versus Gators with the former up by four – but uncommonly it did not hold his attention. His eyes flitted methodically from the screen to the carriage clock occupying centre point on the mantel, and back again. With each passing minute his seat became more rigid, and he wrung his hands with greater purpose.
He could hear Bella in the kitchen, finishing up the dishes and wiping down the sideboards. After dinner was finished, the two has lapsed into silence, an unspoken routine which had become a norm. Both waited for the same imminent arrival, but while his movements grew tensed, hers grew joyous, excitable. So much so that she practically paced the length of the kitchen in anticipation.
In acknowledging this sad truth, Charlie felt a stab of guilt. It was a fathers responsibility to protect his daughter, or rather do what he thought best to protect her; a duty all were charged with. But what if his efforts to protect her made her unhappy? What then? Parenting did not come with a manual, no step by step guide which offered for every action a reaction, no index of alternatives when the first option failed brilliantly as a white hot flame. It was like a tumultuous sea of raw emotion, and in that sea he was drowning.
With a mockery the fingers settled over the Seven O'clock mark. Charlie's manner in accordance sunk to a sullen resentment; in every sense of action doing his best to depict the very definition of unwelcome, unwanted and unforgiven to the imminent house guest. Even simple civility, thought he, could be revoked when the occasion warranted it.
The sleek, silver Volvo pulled in smoothly at the kerb. The tall, bronze haired boy alighted; treading the path from kerbside to porch all to eagerly, with steps in haste and smile in anticipation.
Three quick raps; strong but respectful. That's all it took for him to see his daughter smile, but with each one in quick succession, he felt his protective encapsulation crack just a fraction more. It's entire outside structure was by this point marred with fissures. Surely he should not see the occasion that made Bella so euphoric as the coming of the wolves among the lambs. But such he could not help.
Bella bounded, with the excitement of a child half her age, to answer the door; oblivious to the pangs of guilt which again assaulted her farther, twisted and tainted with the indignation of resentment. His want to see her happy pitted against his need to keep her safe, both raged a fearsome inner battle.
She wrenched the door ajar, immediately settling into a state of contentment, as if the world, which had spun on its axis, had now once again righted itself.
"Hi," was the breathless greeting, both anticlimactic and a rising crescendo, contained within which was her infinite love.
"Hello," returned Edward tenderly, ducking his head to kiss her forehead, slightly, cautiously; hating the need for it but adhering to it none the less stringently.
With the genteelest of touches, he traced the plane of her cheek, calling to the surface a brilliant pink hue. His face broke into a dazzling smile, her favourite, in answer.
Charlie stood abruptly, as if indecision had suddenly been rectified. He advanced on the pair; footfalls unnecessarily heavy as if in reminder of his dominance over the situation. He let Edward into the house, albeit grudgingly, but only under his terms and conditions.
Edward's hand fell from her cheek and slipped into the grasp of her own, a small act of defiance, which spoke his unwillingness to surrender.
"Good evening, chief Swan," greeted Edward, polite as ever, stretching out his free hand.
Charlie grunted and ignored the gesture, wanting the reserved and respectful youth to understand that in every syllable he uttered, verbal or none, he remained unforgiven, and thus unwarranting of returned politeness. His eyes rested upon the interlaced fingers, his expression uncertain and torn.
A fathers trust was the hardest to achieve and the easiest to shatter, such was its volatile nature.
An uncomfortable minute passed, that seemed to last an age, as the three stood in silence. A trio of subtle forces searching for unity, a common in the flood of uncertainty that threatened to consume them. Love tied them, a mistake divided them, repentance guided their passage home and acceptance on the last count could unify them, but unforgettingly, they stood divided. Memory the harshest reminder.
Bella watched both parties with a certain methodology, her expression wary, her stance poised. A rabbit caught in the headlights of two approaching cars on a collision course.
Charlie watched her in return, watched as the expression in her eyes fluctuated between frustration to rationality and back again. Her want to be frustrated diminished by an understanding of her fathers motives, which only lead further to frustration.
After a sufficient length of silence from which it would not be deemed rude to assign a topic of conversation, Edward spoke. His words and loving regard for Bella alone.
"I thought tonight we could turn our attentions to the field of higher academics," he smiled, brandishing a cluster of refined and formal applications.
Bella's expression became tight.
"Collage? Edward." She spoke his name like a complaint and regarded him with a look that Charlie did not understand. Almost as if this self improving pursuit contravened an unspoken agreement. Almost as if this very topic in itself were taboo.
Charlie meanwhile felt his central organs plummet, and was certain his heart, had it lurched with more vigour would have broken free from the confines of his chest.
Since that institute of senior year he had encouraged Bella to look at collages, and done so with ever greater purpose over the last passing weeks, while she had put off this chore in spectacular fashion, with a plethora of oh-so-reasonable excuses, that left Charlie lax to argue. But no more. Now that the time came, the lulling false sense of security did nothing to cushion the blow when it was struck, only ensuring to strengthen the impact, leaving Charlie feeling dazed.
He wanted her to go to collage, wanted her to achieve everything she desired, wanted her to be happy, as any farther does. Just like the night he stands beside his child's cot and in the dark imagines vivid fantasies of what the future may hold for his dear one; astronaut; brain surgeon; president. All things which, within infancy seem all the closer within reach. But all of which frittered and faded, eventually accumulating into one dominant and solitary desire for his own flesh and bone; their happiness.
What he did not want, however, was to lose her, and lamentations abound, that was the singular constant in this entire affair. The process had already began, he was now not the only man to hold her heart. He was loosing her inch by inch, foot by foot, yard by yard as every parent must lose their child in exchange for a striking equal.
But that didn't make it any easier.
Just because he were not particularity vivacious or entirely comfortable with intense, raw emotional expressions – a quirk Bella herself had inherited – did not mean that he did not feel. Quite on the contrary, he felt even more strongly for its introversion. Expression both diluted ans concentrated emotion, retention only concentrated. To bottle a storm did not quell it, only incubate it while it gathered strength.
When Charlie broke free from his troubled reprieve, it was to a shift in the rooms atmosphere; from guarded to exasperated submission, he having missed the meaningful exchange between the pair in his lapse of brash rudeness.
He worked hard to make his tone indignant, and demanded in an overbearing way that fathers executed so precisely effortlessly – that affirmed almost in reprimand that Bella need not do anything she did not want to, and trouble would ensure for anyone who attempted to force her hand;
"How many collages have you applied to, Edward?"
He was ready for the question, his face depicting just the right amount of abashment in response.
"A fair few, sir," replied Edward, ever politely, ever respectfully. "But I'm keeping my options open. With the application date closures drawing so close, I suddenly realized that Bella hadn't yet applied. So I thought I would remove a little pain from the process."
Charlie harboured a feeling of ambiguity to those words.
Now Edward brandished in full the showy, boasting documentation. Bella cringed like a martyr while Charlie read the emboldened name heading the application; University of Alaska. Yeah, thought Charlie with heavy sarcasm, Bella would love that.
Still he swallowed hard and forced a monotone grunt. Bella knew her own mind, and was as stubborn as he when it was set. Edward had his work cut out for him, that thought cheered Charlie somewhat.
"Well, good luck with that." His tone implying that Edward would certainly need it.
The silence that followed was deafening, and pressed down upon the room strangling and smothering the air. Bella shifted uncomfortably, her gaze descending to the marvel that was her shoe laces and the sudden interest they held. Edwards expression, while unwavering, seemed to sink into a residual darkness, his eyes taking on a certain bleakness that both reflected and betrayed the pain of his thoughts. An all to familiar pain.
Charlie alone remained unmoving and inexpressionless, the oppressing silence, though deafening, to he as meaningless as a whisper and of no effect; bested as it was by a sound so real it haunted him. A sound of such unending despair, of such raw loneliness that was so heart wrenching it could kill, of such unwavering pain that with each crescendo it felt like knives of ice tore him apart.
It was that sound he had sat awake listening for in the long, lonely hours of the night, for what had felt like an eternity, with each breath coming in ragged draws, afraid that at any moment her ageing wounds would be wrenched anew. In comparison to that sound, every other was meaningless.
The two adolescents departed slowly, cautiously, and hand in hand, leaving Charlie alone in the centre of the sitting room, and feeling at a loss.
He made to follow, but abstained, albeit only incrementally. Trust was the foundations of forgiveness, and trust needed room to flourish, not to be constrained by the fingers of distrust, which committed a double treachery. Distrust never absolved itself, never rectified its inspiration to reinstate trust.
Contenting himself with a firm but gentle reminder, Charlie called:
"Remember, Bells, half nine," his voice roughened with emotion.
"Yeah, dad." Her tone was both exasperating and tolerating. He could almost see her rolling her eyes.
With undecidedly hesitant movements, Charlie retook his seat on the couch. Lifting the remote, he muted the volume; game or no game.
"Oh! And that's a foul for ..."
Reclaiming the newspaper he had afore disregarded, he shook the crumpled pages open with as much excessive noise as the sheets would permit, a further reminder of his omniscient presence, drawing out a long sigh. Over protective? Overbearing? Over cautious? Perhaps. But at heart, the best intentions ensured.
Mere minutes had passed, but they had spanned the length of hours, and it seemed the sky outside had further receded into darkness.
Charlie scanned the uniform print with an expert methodology, only half concentrating, until a particular emboldened headline caught his attention; "Seattle's Subsequent Strike" A third victim had fallen prey to the somewhat random attacks that had plagued Seattle for the past week.
Charlie tutted loudly. This was exactly why people wanted to live in small towns, it was safer. An advantage it seemed, over the big cities which prevailed Washington.
The police believed the killings to be the work of a serialist, but the pieces did not seem to fit. There was no meticulous pattern favoured by such individuals, neither was there any foreseeable linking attributes to unify the victims. The killings were in essence, random ...
But no-one wants to admit that they are wrong, or have no answers when they are charged with the duty of finding them; least of all those in authority. That much Charlie knew.
Laughter carried from the kitchen, a rich deep laugh, twined with one of a flighty nature, which brought Charlie from his reprieve.
He frowned heavily in malcontent, a few months back it had felt as if he would never hear her laughter again, now she laughed all the time; a contagious effect of Edwards presence. But that wouldn't matter if Edward was going to hurt her again, nothing would matter.
Charlie knew the familiarity of that pain, of the unending loss that consumed and decimated. It was a pain that could never really be revoked, or at least, the memory of it couldn't. It was a pain that did nothing but destroy and a pain he did not think Bella could survive twice … nor he. The eternal bachelor; a safe hold.
He could neither accept nor justify Edward's actions within his mind and he harboured doubts concerning whether Edward even could himself, but he could not change what had already come to pass, only guard the future – Bella's future – with his life.
He didn't hate Edward, and that was an important distinction to acknowledge – he made Bella happy and how could he ever hate something she loved so dearly, despite all else? - rather, he hated what Edward had done, the anguish his actions had caused spurred on the wings of worry. The selfish choice which left no room for consideration, and in its wake left an all too prominent void of sorrow, blacker than a starless and moonless night, in the strangling hold of an unceasing winter. That was what he hated, that was what he despised.
The actions condemn the man, just as much as they can redeem him. Though the latter is harder in the face of the former. It is easy to apportion blame, to take responsibility for ones wrongdoing was harder, a burden Edward had never tried to deny, Charlie admitted almost unwillingly.
In manners, respect and overconfidence, he could not fault the bronze haired youth, he had those in abundance. He treated Bella with a loving regard and a gentle caution as if she was an object of great fragility. Charlie guessed he couldn't really fault that either; Bella had the rare ability of being able to trip on a completely flat expanse of ground. But what he could fault, and would always be able to fault, was Edwards decision to leave, and the consequences of that.
The memory of Bella's wrenching and destroyed screams still haunted him, still caused a shiver to creep down his spine and a coldness to set into his heart.
He remembered those nights with distraught clarity, their harshness and reality, he thought, would never fade. Remembered how in her distress she was inconsolable to his touch and words, and as she retreated further into herself and into what could only be described as a depressive vegetation, he became at a loss. At a loss of what to do for the better, at a loss of what to do for the worse; while he could only look on with concern and stumble blind in the eclipse. Remembered how in the end, he stopped. Stopped trying to console her, and even stopped to some extent, hearing her soul destroying screams. Though, upon reflection, he may have fooled himself of that.
Those were the reasons for his unforgiving, that was why he feared to trust and could not accept. He would do anything to spare Bella that pain.
Men could make mistakes, that was true, and their mistakes could end up hurting someone they were trying to protect. But when Bella ended up being the one who got hurt …
Charlie did not pretend for even a moment to understand the complexity of teenage love, nor the entwined maze of love in general, he was lost in its outer circle, so close to the exit which was constantly concealed. Any movement he made, in advance or retreat wound up in a dead end. But what he did understand, and saw the truth of it within her own eyes, was the strength of the bond between Bella, and grudgingly, Edward; fortified, not diminished by the pain of separation.
Admitting defeat, Charlie stood abruptly and advanced on the door which stood partially ajar. He may have pushed it open with too much purpose and an over-abundance of intent as it slipped out of his grasp and struck the wall with a rude bang!
The two teenagers watched him, their expressions a forced neutral. Bella sat across the table from Edward, but the small scrape of a chair leg Charlie had heard preceding his entrance suggested that they had been sitting in much closer proximity. Charlie didn't know how he felt about that.
"Don't mind me," he mumbled in a monotonic drawl, retrieving a can from the fridge. Then in his next breath he asked in a tone of satisfying rudeness and accusation.
"How did you manage to get so many application forms, Edward? Surely some of the closure dates have been and gone?" Charlie trailed off, leaving suspicion hanging in the air between them.
"A few, sir," Edward admitted casually, a showy, smile shying onto his lips, "but Carlisle managed to persuade them to consider one more application. He found them to be more than receptive."
The shy smile became confident as he regarded Bella, his eyes alive with laughter and in response to her long suffering expression. Charlie glanced between them, certain that he was missing something, and not fond of the feeling.
In an effort to distract himself, Charlie picked up the application atop the small pile which seemed to be compiled of those that were completed. Scanning it, he made a note of the regal and refined emblem, and the emboldened, sophisticated script that accompanied it.
"Yale?" he asked with mild surprise, "well, that's great, Bells." He felt a small sense of pride swell within him.
Belle took the application almost unwillingly from her father, with an expression that begged the ground to just swallow her up whole and spare her from this moment.
"I haven't decided anything for certain, dad," she spoke slowly, unwilling to meet his glance. "Yale is expensive and I don't really think I am the right type of person. Besides, I have to see where I get accepted first."
She wanted to quell his hopes somewhat, but not dash them. Perhaps she could go to collage for a month or two – which was about all her pitiful collage fund would allow – and then drop out claiming it was not something she wanted to do, or was too hard, or something to that effect. It would certainly cast less suspicion and perhaps tie up a few loose ends in the ever tangled web of decisions. However, collage wasn't a feature on her list of wants.
"Though doubtful any collage would refuse her," Edward laughed, eyes alight with amusement, and an expression of ambiguity. Charlie was really beginning to despise that expression.
Bella threw him a mock glare which questioned where his allegiances lay. Charlie grunted, both in accord and dismissal.
He made to question Edward's certainty, with as much rudeness as he could muster, but upon meeting Bella's glances and the plea it held; he suppressed his campaign.
"Alright," he said, moving towards the door. "Half nine"
Retaking his seat, he opened the can with an aggressive hiss, and took a long, refreshing draught.
Maybe, and it was a fleeting and probably inconsequential maybe, one that spoke the tiniest sliver of possibility, but one that refused to be quelled, refused to be ignored. Maybe, he should learn to trust Edward again, maybe he had too.
If Bella could forget the pain of that separation at his presence, at his touch, then that bespoke a pretty poor example of her father, mused Charlie. A father who bitterly remembered old wounds so that if they were ever wrenched anew, the pain would not be so unbearable, just an escalation on a constant. But while he bitterly clung to the past, because of fear, because of doubt, he missed every reassuring action that could have resolved it. He missed all that was good, or else charged it as false.
He did not want to lose Bella, and she would never give up on Edward, that much at least, he could see. And it would be wrong of him to expect her too, and worse of him to want her too.
No, he had to accept and trust. To suppress a sense of better judgement which called him to suspicion. He didn't have to like it, but part of being a father encompassed finding an area of common ground in a battlefield.
He sunk lower into the couch, the supple material by now moulded perfectly to his shape, taking another long drought he increased the volume of the television, finally in the mood to catch the last half of the game.
" … Both teams now drawing. That's a score of 40 all ..."
Half nine came and went, just as it had done the numerous nights previous, and just as it would continue to do. Just as Edward would continue to do, for the foreseeable future at least.
Bella lingered on the doorstep biding a false farewell, her form and Edward's rough shadows in the night. A lasting embrace that neither wanted to surrender.
Charlie dutifully averted his eyes, training them on the info-mercials which proceeded the game, ignoring the ghosting shadows which played upon the window.
Finally, the door closed with a small click as the lock slide back into place, and Bella entered the sitting room. Charlie did not look up, expecting her too keep on walking as she always did, but not tonight.
"Dad?" She stood there with an uncertain expression, looking as lost as he had felt all night. She wrung her hands and shuffled her feet in a show of discomfort.
Charlie met he gaze.
"Dad … you've got to … you can't ..." Again she faltered, words failing. But it did not matter, Charlie needed no further elaboration for everything was laid bear in her eyes.
"I know, Bells," he sighed heavily, "I'll try."
Her gaze did not waver, and her expression did not alter, almost as if she doubted his words or could not dare hope to believe them.
"I promise," he pledged, reinforcing his words with the truest of convictions. There was no time like the present. You could go a whole lifetime reiterating again and again what you pledged in that first instance, but unless at some point it was acted upon, then the best intentions in the world were worse than useless.
She gave a small smile and nodded, turning to leave the room.
"Bells?" She turned back. Charlie shuffled uncomfortably. "I love you, you know?"
She quickly averted her eyes and kept them downcast, her discomfort, which had all but diminished, now rising in a crescendo.
"Love you too."
There was a moment where neither dared to move or even to regard one another. Then quite suddenly Charlie cleared his throat unnecessarily loudly, and shook open the disregarded newspaper; seeking refuge behind the screen the broadsheet offered, while Bella made a hasty exit, to the refuge of her room and Edward's arms. Both trying to escape the discomfort of the emotionally expulsive gesture.
Thank you for reading :)
One Wish Magic.